THE   ETERNAL   LAUGHTER 
AND   OTHER  POEMS 


^ 


THE    ET  E  R  N  A  L 
LAUGHTER^ 

AND  OTHER  POEMS  BY 
W  STARLING  BURGESS^ 
WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION 
BY  JULIAN  HAWTHORNE 


With  drawings  by 
Edward   Lyne   Cr5 

Edmund  H  Garrett 


BOSTOTS-W  B  CLARKE  COMPANY 

LONDOM  — C  D  CAZEMOVE  CH  SON 

MCMlli 


Ts 

3505 


Copyright,  19O3  by 
W.  STARLING  BURGESS 


Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall 


The  University  Press,  Cambridge,  TJ.S.A. 


INTRODUCTION 


INTRODUCTION 


OST  of  our  contemporary 
poetry  is  first  seen  in  our 
magazines ;  and  this  may  be 
one  reason  why  it  is  so  uni 
formly  meritorious  (as  regards 
form  and  intelligence),  and  why  almost 
every  line  of  it  might  have  been  written 
by  the  same  person.  For  the  magazine 
editor  is  compelled  to  restrict  his  criti 
cisms  of  the  product  submitted  to  him 
to  the  body  of  it  rather  than  to  its  soul ; 
since,  however  desirable  it  may  be  that 
the  latter  should  be  right,  it  is  indispensa 
ble  that,  for  magazine  purposes,  the 
former  should  be  correct.  The  natural 
consequence  has  been  that  the  soul  has 
gradually  disappeared  from  the  common 
run  of  magazine  poetry,  while  the  body 


has  attained  a  perfection  of  form  and 
adornment  which  the  great  poets  might 
equal,  but  could  not  surpass.  And,  inas 
much  as  fashion  rules  in  the  outward 
accoutrements  of  verse,  as  well  as  of 
society  on  parade,  it  has  followed  that  the 
great  majority  of  magazine  verses  bear  so 
strong  a  resemblance  one  to  another  that, 
as  aforesaid,  nearly  all  of  them  might 
have  been  composed  and  indited  by  the 
self-same  poet.  They  are  very  nice,  but 
they  are  very  monotonous  ;  and  their  most 
cordial  admirer  can  hardly  hope  that  they 
will  much  outlast  the  physical  substance 
of  the  medium  in  which  they  appear. 

Real  poetry  belongs  to  another  cate 
gory.  It  is  always  the  product  of  real 
emotion  felt  by  the  individual  who  writes 
it.  It  is  the  record  of  his  personal  and 
independent  discoveries  in  the  realm  of 
feeling  and  thought.  In  so  far,  therefore, 


it  creates  a  new  world  ;  nothing  just  like 
it  was  ever  before  seen,  for  the  same  rea 
son  that  no  two  persons  are  just  alike. 
Nevertheless,  if  the  new  poet's  mission  is 
authentic  and  lasting,  this  new  world 
which  he  reveals  must  recommend  itself 
to  the  reader  by  proving  itself  to  be  a 
discovery  in  the  consciousness  of  that 
reader  himself;  it  must  not  be  alien  ;  in 
telling  the  writer's  secrets,  it  must  tell  the 
reader's  as  well.  Its  charm,  its  grasp, 
and  its  permanent  value  lie  in  the  fact  that 
the  new  writer,  in  admitting  us  to  his  inti 
macy,  endows  us  with  a  fresh  insight  into 
ourselves  ;  these  emotions  of  his,  his  pas 
sions,  truths,  and  moods,  have  ever  been 
our  own,  but  only  at  his  instance  did  we 
fully  awake  to  their  significance,  relation, 
and  value. 

Another  quality  the  real  poet  must  needs 
have  —  the  instinct  of  beauty.     For  that 


(as  distinct  from  mere  prettiness  and  the 
musical  jingle)  he  must  go  deep.  The 
enduring  harmonies  are  elemental  ;  they 
abide  at  the  root  of  things.  They  instil 
a  joy  which  thrills  from  the  very  heart  of 
nature  to  our  own.  They  make  us  rich 
and  happy.  We  say  of  them  that  they 
are  the  flower  and  fragrance  of  truth. 
They  refine  us  and  exalt  us.  They  set 
our  feet  again  on  the  true  path,  and  give 
us  delicious  glimpses  of  unimaginable 
good.  They  are  the  warrant  of  human 
integrity.  They  make  orthodox  concep 
tions  of  Heaven  appear  cold  and  barren 
in  comparison.  There  is  a  vital  fire  in 
them  which  arms  us  against  fate. 

The  authentic  poet,  too,  must  trust,  at 
any  cost,  to  his  inspiration.  When  he  is 
vibrating  to  the  impulses  of  the  god,  he 
must  ask  no  questions,  but  obey.  Things 
will  be  told  to  him  which  are  above  the 


height  and  below  the  sounding  of  his  com 
mon  understanding.  When  he  has  been 
let  down  once  more  to  his  normal  level,  he 
questions  these  revelations  as  another 
might  ;  but  he  must  yield  to  them.  He 
will  be  charged  with  obscurity  ;  but  he 
must  content  himself  with  the  assurance 
that  certain  heights  of  feeling  and  percep 
tion  do  not  lend  themselves  to  mortal  lan 
guage,  except  in  hints  and  allusions  ;  they 
will  not  be  explicit.  The  reader  who  has 
a  soul  for  these  things  will  understand  ; 
the  others  must  wait,  and,  if  they  will, 
complain.  There  is  a  Fourth  Dimension 
in  these  matters,  which  we  must  com 
pound  with  as  best  we  may.  Such 
obscurities  may  be  the  upper  rungs  of  the 
ladder  which  stretches  from  earth  to 
Heaven. 

But  I  will  not    longer  dwell  on  these 
general  considerations  ;  my  function  is  to 


speak  for  a  new  poet,  who  here,  for  the 
first  time,  addresses  his  contemporaries. 
Poet  I  call  him,  advisedly.  He  has  much 
to  learn  in  the  way  of  fashionable  tailor 
ing  ;  but  for  those  able  to  care,  in  this 
age,  for  the  naked  beauty  of  nymphs  and 
demigods,  he  can  say  something.  I  must 
not  be  coarsely  misunderstood  ;  the  deli 
cacy  and  refinement  of  his  inspiration  are 
extreme.  But  the  soul  of  his  theme  has 
so  commanded  him  that  he  has  often  been 
heedless  of  the  technique  of  form.  The 
divine  pressure  of  the  message  has  often 
caused  his  mortal  tongue  to  stammer  in 
its  delivery.  It  would  be  easy  to  correct 
these  lapses  or  negligencies  ;  but  at  the 
risk  of  compromising  their  individuality  — 
of  lowering  their  spirit  to  the  conventional. 
Rather,  I  rejoice  in  them,  as  one  rejoices 
in  the  awkwardness  and  na'ivete  of  vir 
ginity.  Growth  will  adjust  these  surface 


inharmonies.  Meanwhile,  they  are  the 
warrant  that  here  is  one  who  writes  in 
response  to  an  intensity  of  vision  and  emo 
tion,  pressing  intolerably  from  within  for 
expression.  Truth  and  beauty,  genuinely 
perceived,  will  not  stay  in  the  heart,  but 
demand  to  be  released,  because  they 
belong  to  the  greater  heart  of  humanity. 
It  is  only  the  brain  that  can  keep  its  own 
counsels.  The  poet  knows  that  what  is 
given  to  him  is  far  too  precious  for  per 
sonal  ownership.  It  must  out. 

The  substance  of  the  book  is  the  love 
of  a  lover  for  his  beloved.  No  story  is 
told.  In  one  short  piece  after  another 
the  moods  of  the  lover  are  reflected  ;  and 
all  of  them  wear  the  shadowy  vestments 
of  night,  twilight,  and  dawn  ;  the  sun  has 
not  yet  risen,  or  he  has  set.  Love  in 
eclipse :  love  waiting :  love  remember 
ing  :  —  these  states  of  emotion,  and  the 


insight  they  inspire  into  life,  nature,  and 
the  Creative  purposes,  are  the  features  of 
the  theme.  The  phases  are  briefly 
treated ;  but  they  are  not  to  be  briefly 
dismissed  by  the  reader;  the  thoughts  and 
feelings  embodied  are  long  and  deep,  and 
sometimes,  in  their  simplicity,  abstruse 
and  subtle.  Ever  and  anon,  they  are 
imperfectly  conveyed.  But,  constantly, 
the  right  word  blooms  out  with  no  more 
effort  than  a  flower  blooms,  with  satisfy 
ing  felicity.  In  this  respect,  and  in  a  rich 
beauty  of  imagery,  the  writer  brings 
Keats  to  mind  ;  and  the  conception  of 
others  of  his  verses  suggests  a  fellowship 
with  William  Blake.  Yet  he  is  far  from 
being  a  poet  of  echoes  ;  he  stands  on  his 
own  feet,  and  his  head  brushes  his  own 
stars.  It  is  poetry  that  stirs  within  him, 
not  the  poets. 

It  is  to  poets,  therefore,  rather  than  to 


the  general  public,  that  his  book  will 
make  its  first  appeal.  They  can  appre 
ciate  and  extenuate ;  welcome  what  is 
given,  and  wait  hopefully  for  what  may 
be  to  come.  That  which  is  to  come  will 
doubtless  reach  a  far  wider  audience. 
The  essentials  of  poetry  are  already 
here ;  if,  now,  the  writer,  without  forfeit 
ing  his  individual  voice  and  impulse,  can 
achieve  greater  perfection  of  expression, 
he  can  add  a  new  page  to  the  Golden 
Book  of  time. 

JULIAN  HAWTHORNE. 

NOVEMBER  5,  1903. 


CONTENTS 


PAOB 

The  Eternal  Laughter 7 

Waiting 8 

She  hears  Strange  Sound  and  knows 

not  what  it  is 10 

Good-Night 12 

She  sleeps  upon  the  Sea  ....  13 

Night  and  Sleep 14 

To  a  Flower  once  worn  upon  her 

Breast 15 

Her  Being 16 

Thou  art  the  Miracle 17 

The  Vision  of  the  Ant 18 

Earth's  Insufficiency 19 

What  art  Thou  ?  21 


PAH 

Blinded  with  Thine  Eyes    .     ...  22 

The  Flower  and  the  Sea-Shell     .     .  23 

The  Night 24 

Everywhere 25 

The  Wish 26 

The  Snowstorm 27 

A  Prayer 28 

Before  the  Dawn 29 

Thy  Coming  in  the  Night    ....  31 

A  Nightmare 33 

Ave  Cometa 34 

Let  there  be  no  Change      ....  35 

The  Window  of  Sleep 36 

Thou  art  my  Light 37 

Vain  Speech 38 

The  Wind  speaks  to  Her    ....  39 

Change 40 

The  Mystic 41 

My  Little  Girl 43 


PACK 

Whither? 44 

Where  art  Thou  ? 45 

The  Wind 46 

Autumn 47 

The  Song  of  Nature 48 

Parted 49 

The  Sleep  of  Death 51 

Regret 52 

Is  it  Well  with  Her? 53 

Thy  Hair 54 

Shadow  Land 56 

Sunrise  at  Sea 57 

Fair  Earth,  Farewell 58 

Death?  59 


THE    ETERNAL   LAUGHTER 


THE   ETERNAL    LAUGHTER 

O,   there   came   a  dream   of 
wonder:  — 

Beyond   the    calling    wind    I 
sped, 

Through    space    from   which 
all  light  had  fled 

I  passed  from  earth  and  life  asunder. 
Alone,  in  the  eternal  vastness, 
I  floated  from  the  cloud  of  time, 
Till,  in  that  mystic  space  sublime, 
It  faded  in  a  distant  fastness. 
When,  from  the  gray  heaven  afar, 
Thou  deep  eternal  King  of  all, 
Thy  words  unmasked, —  to  me  Thy  call 
Sounded  o'er  path  of  sun  and  star. 
Then,  veiled  in  mysterious  spell, 
It  seemed  Thy  thought  grew  clear  to  me. 
It  seemed,  ah  God,  I  laughed  with  Thee, 
Father,  I  knew  Thee  then  so  well. 


WAITING 

AITING   by   the    shadowed 
road, 

Where    the    last    of    sunset 
glowed, 

I   watched   the    fainting    twi 
light   go, 

Saw  the  trembling  starlight  grow, 
Felt  the  rising  arm  of  Night 
Round  me  wrap  her  mantle  quite ; 
All  beneath  her  shrouding  seize, 
With  her  darkness  drown  the  trees. 
There  I  knew  the  death  of  Day 
And  the  Night's  mysterious  sway,  — 
Marked  the  shadows  climb  and  fall 
From  a  waving  pine  tree  tall, 
Heard  a  sound  within  the  wood, 
Felt,  my  heart  sink  where  I  stood, 
Saw  the  flowers,  tipped  with  gold, 
At  a  footfall,  lo  !  unfold  — 
Heard  the  insects  cease  to  sing, 
8 


Guessed  the  listening  of  each  thing. 
Then  the  flowers  of  the  night, 
Lo,  the  darkness,  swift  in  flight, 
All  the  stars  above  thee,  sweet, 
And  the  earth  beneath  thy  feet, 
In  the  glory  of  thy  way 
Spread  their  wings  and  passed  away. 


SHE  HEARS  STRANGE  SOUND 
AND  KNOWS  NOT  WHAT  IT  IS 

WEETHEART,   amid    the 

forest,  in  the  night, 
Didst  thou  once  hear  a  sound — 

some  branches  break? 
And  didst  thou  question  then 
what  might  be  there? 
Know,  dear,    that   thou    art   unattended 

never. 
When  all  thy  beauty  once  was  made,  and 

passed 
From  heaven  to  earth,  then  wert  thou  far 

too  fair 
And    exquisite    to   wander  through   this 

world 

Alone,  a  prey  to  all  the  things  that  live. 
So   God,    thy  father,    sent  with  thee   to 

earth 

A    troop   of  spirits   and   kind    creatures 
strange, 

10 


To  guard  all  paths  on  which  thy  fairy  feet 
Should   roam,  and   shield   thee  from  the 

envious  beasts 

Of  land  and  sea,  made  wild  and  desperate 
With  thine  enchantment  and  dear  ways 

of  thee. 

So,  sweet,  if  in  the  night,  whilst  gazing  up, 
Enchanting  with  thine  eyes  some  envied 

star, 

That  star  is  of  a  sudden  lost  to  thee, 
And  shadows  from  dark,  sweeping  wings 

pass  by,  — 

Or  if  again  thou  hearest  footfalls  dim, 
And    crushing   sounds  within   the  forest 

black, 

Be  not  afraid,  my  fairest,  close  thine  eyes, 
'T  is  but  the  passing  of  thy  guarding  host. 


11 


GOOD-NIGHT 

OOD-NIGHT,   sweetheart, 

I  'II  dream  I  am 

Some  airy  spirit  of  the  dark, 

That     within     thy    chamber, 

dear, 

May  float  as  the  breath  of  a  flower; 
Or  like  some  passing  bird  of  night, 
Rest  on  black  wings  to  gaze  at  thee 
In  starlight  sleeping  on  thy  bed, 
Thine  eyelids  closed  upon  thine  eyes 
Of  glory,  and  thy  hair  in  floods 
Of  dark  and  changing  gold,  at  rest 
About  thy  sad  and  fairest  face, 
And  on  thy  breast,  so  holy  white. 
Beside  thee  exquisitely  stealing, 
One  trusting  hand,  whose  tender  touch 
Would  turn  the  blinding  pain  from  Hell, 
And  from  the  hollow  eyes  of  Death 
Would  verily  draw  tears. 


12 


SHE   SLEEPS   UPON   THE    SEA 

N  climbing  shadows  of  the  sea, 
To-night,  sweetheart,  shall  be 

thy  bed, 
And  through  the  green,  dark 

waters  led 
Shall  glide  sea-children  then  to  thee. 
The  cheek  of  roaring  wind  and  sea 
Shall  be  thy  pillow,  and  the  waves, 
With  voices  gleaned  from  surging  caves 
Through  lips  of  foam  shall  sing  to  thee. 
The  stars  of  night  shall  serve  thee  for  thy 

candle's  spark, 

And,  sweet,  the  hull  of  night  shall  be  thy 
cradle  dark. 


13 


NIGHT   AND    SLEEP 

HE  shades  of  the  night,  from 

that  region 
Beyond    the    red    sunset    of 

flame, 

Bear  in  their  deep  fringes  a 
legion 

Of  ghosts  without  name ; 
Of  ghosts,  yea,  an  infinite  number, 
Strange  beings  that  know  not  the  day, 
Sowing  love  or  tares  into  slumber, 
Then  fading  away. 

O  welcome,  Night !  breathe  from  thy  lips 
Thy  breath,  on  whose  wings  I  am  free, 
That  fans  not  the  sail  of  tall  ships, 
Nor  stirs  the  deep  sea ; 
The  vapor  dissolving  the  hardness 
Of  all  which  we  meet  in  the  light ; 
The  potion  instilled  with  thy  sweetness 
And  magic,  dark  Night. 

14 


TO  A  FLOWER  ONCE  WORN 
UPON  HER  BREAST 

LOWER,  where  art  thou 
now,  that  once 

Lay  on  her  breast?     Had  not 
her  glory 

Sunk  me  in  deep  forgetfulness 
Of  all,  I  should  have  prayed  her  then 
For  thee,  happy  flower.     But  with 
Thy  mother  earth,  and  all  the  air 
That  with  thy  breathing  fragrant  was; 
WTith  the  mighty  sun  that  gave  thee 
Life,  and  the  night  that  gave  thee  rest, 
With  these  miracles  —  little  flower, 
Yea,  thou  also,  faded  from  my  thought 
When  she  drew  near,  and  filled  mine  eyes. 


15 


HER  BEING 

HERE  is  truth  within  thine 
eyes 

The  world  hath  never  taught ; 

All  doth  tell  of  thee  within 

That  is  about  thee  wrought: 
The  glory  of  a  star, 
The  beauty  of  a  flower  wild, 
The  mercy  of  God, 
The  sweetness  of  a  little  child. 


16 


THOU   ART   THE   MIRACLE 

H,  sweet, — 

Than   holding    all    His  thun- 

drous  sea, 
More  glory  were  it  for  God's 

Hand  ' 
To  hold  thy  feet. 


17 


THE    VISION    OF    THE    ANT 

T  was  not  light  discordant 
Of  waves  with  untuned  crests; 

Nor  light  of  moon,  nor  stars, 
But  that  of  all  infinity, 
Glided     athwart    the    leaflet 
bars,  — 
The  dawn-beam  of  eternity. 

A  vision  ne'er  by  living  seen, 
Nor  e'en  by  the  good  in  death, 
Of  form  most  like  a  fairy  queen, 
Of  substance  of  the  rose's  breath. 

Far  in  the  starry  sky 
Waved  ringlets,  all  of  golden  brown, 
Within  whose  silken  frame  did  lie 
Her  face,  in  a  rose-leaf  gown. 


18 


EARTH'S   INSUFFICIENCY 

(RAPT  in  the  falling  veil  of 

night, 
[Worlds  unknown  sweep  about 

me  ; 

I  The  shadow  lands  of  ghostly 
light 

Deep  in  mystery  greet  me. 
Swiftly  grow  sight  and  hearing  faint, 
As  the  forms  of  earthly  things, 
Passing  confused  without  restraint, 
Waver  as  borne  forth  by  wings. 
Time  is  no  more,  nor  place ; 
Dark  regions  all,  with  spectres  rife, — 
Gray  worlds  that  fill  not  space, 
That  pass  beyond  this  bounded  life ! 
Life,  the  slave  of  the  hour  long, 
Can  it  give  the  deed  unwrought, 
Cancel  the  memory  of  wrong, 
Or  ever  reach  the  end  we  sought? 
One  little  hour  of  joy  and  hope, — 

19 


'Tis  gone.    Canst  thou,  Earth  Spirit, 

In  all  thy  power's  scope, 

From  time's  unturning  tide  recall  it? 

Or  at  thy  will  the  end  require 

Of  all  that  guides  the  falling  rain, 

And  propels  the  stars  of  fire 

Through  the  ethereal  domain  ? 


WHAT   ART   THOU? 

HAT  art  thou? 
None  can  the  answer  lend  — 
That  answer  without  end. 
The  sea  and  the  silent  forest, 
A 11  the  world,  can  but  suggest; 
For  thy  shadows  are  the  night  skies, 
And  the  stars  of  night  thine  eyes. 


21 


BLINDED   WITH   THINE    EYES 
WEETHE  ART,  I  love  thee, 

I  can  say  no  more, 
For  I  am   blinded  with  thine 

eyes,  and  with 

Thy  voice  am  dumb,  and  lulled 
beyond  all  sleep, 

All  death  beyond,  with  thy  strange  fra 
grance,  sweet; 
And  though   it   seemed   the  glory   could 

not  last, 
Yet,  in  each   moment,  dear,    some    new 

sweet  thing 
I  learned  of  thee,  —  some  message  from 

thine  eyes 
Of  wonder,  some  ecstacy  in  the  form  of 

thee, 
Which  is  more  fair  than  all  of  loveliness. 


22 


THE  FLOWER  AND  THE 
SEA-SHELL 

N  a  dream  I  found  a  flower 
Growing  in  a  woodland  bower; 
In  the  dream   I  plucked  the 

flower 
From    the    fading,    darksome 


bower. 

Then  I,  dreaming,  from  the  woodland 
Journeyed  stilly  to  the  sealand, 
And  upon  a  girted  headland 
Found  a  sea-shell  in  the  dreamland. 

Sweet,  the  flower  was  thy  breath, 
And  the  sea-shell  was  thy  voice. 


THE   NIGHT 

|'ER  the  threshold  of  the  West 

Hath  closed  the  gate  of  night. 

O  wondrous  night,  where  hast 
thou  gone, 

Ne'er  more  to  sing  thy  fair, 
sweet  song? 

Or  art  thou  dead,  O  fairest  night, 
And  laid  within  the  tombed  past, 
Thy  light  alone  in  dreams  to  last? 
Ah,  no,  thou  art  within  a  fortress, 
Hidden  in  the  mist  of  time, 
Whose  towers  o'er  the  clouds  I  'II  see, 
When  the  hill  of  Death  I  climb. 


EVERYWHERE 

HROUGH   the  dark-walled 

wood  I  wander, 
By  the  leaf  that  lisps  in  the 

night-breath  tender, 
And  songs  that  listless  wings 
of  insects  render,  — 
Thou  art  here ! 

Where,  thundering  from  ocean's  flume, 

Far  flies  the  foaming  spume, 

And  the  waters  of  the  crest  seethe  to  the 

hollow's  gloom, 
Thy  spirit  dwells. 

Still,  in  the  soundless  space  of  stars, 
Where  comets  glide  with  golden  bars, 
All  unrivalled,  all  beloved,  in  those  stars 
Thou  livest. 


25 


THE  WISH 

HERE  may  I  forever  dwell, 

In    the    cloud-breath   of  thy 
lips; 

In  the  starlight  of  thine  eyes ; 

For  thou  art  the  life  eternal, 
And  thy  brow  is  the  moonlit  skies. 


THE    SNOWSTORM 

O  majestical  and  wondrous, 

All  silent  fell  the  snow  ; 

It  seemed  the  bearded  Face  of 

God 
Did  bend  o'er  those  below. 


A   PRAYER 

HOU  comest,  fairer  than  the 
night 

That  heals  the  wound  of  day  ; 

Breathing  from  thy  spirit  sleep, 

Dreamlike  and  fair  and  free, 
Lending  to  my  doubting  heart 
Dear   hope  of  life  with  thee. 
O  had  I  words  from  angel  mouths, 
Thou  might  my  prayer  receive ; 
For  naught  of  earth,  sweet  love,  can  tell 
The  smallest  part  of  thee. 


BEFORE   THE    DAWN 

YSTIC  hour  of  the  day  and 
night, 

Ere  death  of  dark,  ere  yet  is 
light, 

Night's    dying    breath,    and 
birth  of  day, 

Ere  dreams  and  sleep  have  passed  away : 
The  time  when  the  gray  wind,  along 
The  edge  of  night,  sings  human  song  ; 
And  the  deep  chill  is  clearest  felt, 
That  Death  in  awful  march  has  dealt : 
The  hour  ere  sounds  of  day  begin, 
What  time  Death  walks  most  widely  in : 
When  o'er  the  pale  and  ashen  land, 
In  the  dim  day,  upon  the  sand, 
The  fan-like  tracings  of  the  feet 
Of  Death  on  earth  we  yet  may  meet : 
When  the  last  stars,  the  tired  eyes 
Of  night,  fade  'neath  the  morning  skies, 
And  closed  by  eyelids  of  dawn's  fire, 
29 


Before  the  breaking  day  retire : 
Then  from  the  far,  faint  heaven's  blue, 
The  first  bird  wakes  creation  new. 


30 


*  THY  COMING  IN  THE  NIGHT 

WAKING  from  some  dream 

of  thee, 

Unwillingly  torn  from  a  far 
And   unremembered  life  with 

thee, 

I  saw  the  forests  of  the  night 
In  her  low  hours  unbar.    Borne  up 
Reluctant  from  the  pool  of  sleep, 
I  gazed  on  the  uncolored  dark, 
Till,  like  the  bursting  of  the  sky 
Of  Hell,  —behold,  the  wall  of  night 
Was  of  a  sudden  shattered,  and 
I  saw  the  black  wings  of  darkness 
Uplifted  by  thy  fair  white  hands ; 
And  o'er  my  bed,  stealing  unheard 
Through  the  mist  of  night,  I  felt  thee  bend. 
Ah,  sweet,  thy  coming  gave  me  then 
Long-lost  and  curious  knowledge ; 
Once  more  those  magic  sounds  I  knew, 
Of  things  first  heard,  which  fall  but  to 
31 


The  child  upon  his  mother's  breast, — 
Those  fading  sounds  beyond  the  world 

of  now, 

Which,  always  to  the  aged  ear, 
Are  but  the  footfalls  striking  fire 
Of  a  lone  horseman  of  the  night, 
Yet  to  the  child  are  infinite. 
Hearing  such  sounds,  then  to  my  nostrils 
Came  the  odor  of  strange  flowers, 
Far  sweeter  than  violets  born 
In  the  deep  forests  of  the  world. 
Drenched  in  thy  scattered  hair,  which  is 
Fairer  than  all  the  rain  of  God, 
O'er  me  I  felt  thy  glory  pour; 
And  as  a  parched  weed  drinks  in 
The  miracle  of  rain, 
So  from  thy  falling  hair  I  drank, 
To  give  my  blinded  eyes  the  strength 
Of  opening,  and  beholding  thee. 


A   NIGHTMARE 


ISS  me,  dear,  ere  now  I 
For,  my  love,  I  thought  thee 

dead. 

I  dreamed  I  fought 
The  moaning  wind 


Far  out  upon  a  plain, 

Amid  low  trees  and  stones; 

And  found  thee  white 

And  still  upon  the  ground, 

Thy  fair  feet  lapped 

By  all  the  waters  of  the  world, 

Which,  serving  for  the  tears  of  God, 

Made  their  obeisance  to  thee, 

And,  gently  flowing  by  thy  side, 

Drank  in  with  myriad  liquid  mouths 

Thy  warm,  sweet  blood. 


AVE    COMETA 

LORIOUS  is  thy  pathway 
Through  the  stars  of  fire, 
For    a    port    that    hath     no 

reaching, 
With  a  speed  that  cannot  tire. 

Tell  me,  Comet,  He  who  launched  thee, — 

Doth  He  love  a  man  in  pain, 

Smaller  than  the  glowing  dust 

In  thy  wake  of  flaming  mane? 

Comet  fearful,  will  He  save  me,  — 

He  who  plays  with  such  as  thee? 


34 


LET    THERE    BE    NO    CHANGE 

HROUGH  the  postern 

All  must  enter, 

And  alone  the  ghost  return, 

Oft  have  I  wondered 
Shall  I  find  thee 
In  that  mystery  of  the  dead  ? 

Will  each  hand  so  tender, 

And  thine  eyes  of  glory, 

Thee  to  me  unchanged  render? 

For  every  difference  in  thee, 
No  matter  how  very  small  it  be, 
Would  make  a  hell  for  me. 


35 


THE    WINDOW   OF   SLEEP 

OT  e'en  with  the  flash  of  the 

lightning 
May'st  them  the  dream  depth 

scan; 

For  a  barrier  lofty  and  deep 
Are  the  bars  of  awaking  that  span 
The  window  of  sleep. 


36 


THOU   ART   MY   LIGHT 

S  from  the  boundless  space, 

the  light  of  stars, 
In    mystery,    falls    upon    this 

earth  of  ours ; 

So,  from  thy  soul,  thine  eyes' 
deep,  tender  light 

Descends    to    me,    enwrapt    in    darkest 
night. 


37 


VAIN    SPEECH 


WEET,  how  can  I  express 
Or  give  of  love  to  thee? 
For,  bounded  with  thy  glory, 
Naught  of  my  soul  is  free. 
Nor  golden  of  the  sunset, 


Nor  red  of  dawn  at  sea, 
Nor  all  the  stars  in  heaven 
Can  paint  the  form  of  thee. 


38 


THE    WIND    SPEAKS   TO    HER 

NDER  the  stars  she  lay, 
And  unto  her,  softly, 
The  night  wind  whispered  :  — 
"  O,  thou,  so  fair,  so  pure, 

so  good  ; 
Thou,  so  stately,  yet  so  tender, 
And  so  queenly,  yet  so  elfin, 
Wilt  thou  to  me  thy  secret  render, 
And  to  me  thine  eyes  surrender, 
Of  thy  world  beyond  the  sky  wall, 
What  thou  seest  beyond  the  stars?" 


39 


CHANGE 

AWOKE  upon  the  ocean, 
On  the  patient,  toiling  sea, 
And  all  alone  without  thee, 
With   the   waters    round    me 

dripping, 
With  the  waves  about  me  lapping, 
In  the  wasteness  of  the  sea. 

And  the  moon  did  build  a  pathway 
O'er  the  rolling  wall  of  sea. 
By  that  silver  path  I  sought  thee, 
With  the  waters  round  me  dripping, 
And  the  waves  about  me  lapping, 
In  the  thunder  of  the  sea. 

Nor  path  need  build  the  moonbeam, 
Nor  wall  can  make  the  sea; 
For  now  thou  art  beside  me, 
With  the  waters  round  us  dripping, 
With  the  waves  about  us  lapping, 
In  the  glory  of  the  sea. 
40 


I 


THE    MYSTIC 

EEPER    than    thought    or 

sleep, 

This,  this  alone,  I  know : 
Though   the    great    stars    be 
shattered, 

And  wide  all  the  world  be  scattered, 

In  me  the  kingdom  is; 

Within  I  live 

Eternity  and  time. 

No  deed  of  wrong, 

Nor  path  ill  taken, 

Nor  fate  can  blast 

What  is  the  all. 

And  love,  though  brief, 

And  falling 

Like  the  withered  leaf, 

Dies  not  beyond  recalling; 

And  in  my  coiling 

Flight 

Through  life  to  death, 
41 


Then  far  beyond, 

Must  yet  return  again, 

And  be  renewed. 

Not  as  the  fading 

Life  in  dreams, 

Which  is  deep-barred 

And  gray  —  like  ashes 

Is  ever  blasted 

By  the  cloud  awaking; 

But  lived  once  more 

All  glowing  warm, 

As  the  unknown  to-morrow 

Here  flames  from  the  life  of  now. 

Though  knowing 

Nothing, 

This  I  know : 

Whate'er  befall, 

My  lifetime  but  swift  lightning  is ; 

Beyond  is  all. 


MY    LITTLE    GIRL 


HOU  art  the  spirit, 
The  angel  of  life. 
Thou  art  the  being 
That  leadest  through  death. 
I  love  thee,  dear, 


As  God  in  life; 
I  love  thee,  still, 
As  hope  in  death, 
And  more  than  all  — 
My  little  girl. 


WHITHER? 

[HITHER,  whither,  from  the 

world, 

If  I  fly,  will  lead  to  thee,  — 
Where  the  stars  of  fire  wander 
In  the  ether's  boundless  sea? 
Or  in  lands  that  have  existence 
Like  the  fading  coast  of  dreams, 
Where  no  law  of  nature  trammels, 
And  but  spirit  starlight  gleams? 


44 


WHERE  ART   THOU? 

WEETHEART,   whither 
hast  thou  entered 

That   in  vain  I   seek   to  find 
thee? 

In  that   shadow  —  more   than 
dreamland — 

Tell  me  of  the  spells  that  bind  thee. 
Sadly  through  the  night  I  listen 
For  some  wind  to  waft  thy  voice 
Where  enchanted  moonbeams  glisten, 
Ere  the  morrow  balk  my  choice 
With  a  dagger  swift  to  sever 
All  that  chains  me  to  this  shore; 
Beyond  in  sleep  to  dream  forever, 
Or  in  life  to  love  thee  more. 


45 


THE    WIND 

II KE  the  cry  of  one  in  sorrow, 
Hark,  the  wind  is  calling 
O'er  the  dark  forest  fringe, 
I  Where   the   pale    starlight's 
falling : 

"  Sweet,  I  loved  thee,"  — hear  it  say; 

"  And  now  thou  'rt  gone,"  —  't  is  wailing. 


46 


AUTUMN 

ARE  rock  of  gray, 
Cold  autumn  air, 
And  silent  scudding  cloud, 
And  leaves  in  the  sunset  rai 
ment  of  your  death, 
Fair  red  and  yellow  gold, 
Thou  givest  me  wondrous  knowledge,  — 
A   knowledge  deeper  than  the  ways  of 

men, 

Fast  fleeting  at  their  touch, 
And  vanishing  as  soon  must  thou,  white 

cloud; 
A  knowledge  glorious  as  thy  color,  dying 

leaves, 

Vaster  than  all  lands  and  seas 
That  thou  enfoldest,  fading  air, 
And  deeper  than  the  earth 
That  bears  thee,  —  rock  of  gray  ! 


47 


THE    SONG   OF   NATURE 

ANST  thou  hear  the  song  of 

Nature 

Sung  by  every  tiny  creature? 
How   they    vie    among    each 

other 

That  the  one  surpass  the  other 
That  he  may  perfection  be, 
And  so,  blessed,  become  like  thee ! 


48 


PARTED 

WHY  hast  thou  left  me 
To  sink  in  the  night? 
The  gray  wind  hath  called  me, 
And  gathered  me  quite, 
And  the  great  world  is  cold 
and  bereft  of  thy  light. 

Dear,  what  gateway  unbars 
That  thou  com'st  not  at  all? 
Hast  thou  fled  to  the  stars 
That  thou  hear'st  not  my  call  ? 
For  the  earth  is  all  silent  and  black  like 
a  pall. 

Sweet,  of  thy  glory 
I  drank  in  the  dawning. 
Sweetest,  thy  memory 
Slays  me  with  longing. 
May    not    a   word    of   thee    lessen    my 
mourning? 

49 


M« 


The  air,  which  erewhile 
Breathed  low  with  thy  voice, 
Now  fans  me  with  subtle 
Rank  poisonous  choice  — 
To  live  in  thine  absence,  or  in  death  to 
rejoice. 


50 


THE    SLEEP   OF   DEATH 

TRANGE  Sleep  of  Death, 
What  are  thy  dreams? 
I  feel  thy  breath, 
Thy  dagger  gleams. 
The  light  grows  dim, 

As  slowing  blood 

Through  chilling  limb 

Doth  end  its  flood. 


51 


H,  would  that  from  this  night, 

sweet, 

My  voice  could  lift  to  thee, 
For  the  night  doth  bring  re 
gret,  sweet, 

Of  some  small  thing  unsaid,  — 

Some  finger-touch  forgotten, 

A  kiss  that  ne'er  was  real, 

A  lost  glance  of  thine  eyes,  sweet, 

Some  odor  of  thy  hair; 

The  whisper  of  thy  breath,  sweet, 

The  heaven  of  thy  lips, 

And  all  the  thrilling  whiteness 

Of  thy  two  perfect  feet; 

The  harbor  of  thy  arms,  dear, 

The  healing  of  thy  hands, — 

Yea,  all  that  mystic  firmament 

Of  miracle  of  thee. 


IT   WELL   WITH    HER? 


NGEL  child,  so  far  away, 
Free  from  Nature's  changeful 

sway, 

Tell   me,  art  thou  warm  to 
night? 


idsper,  burns  thy  candle  bright, 
Uhy  bed,  of  cumber  free, 
.oly  in  the  joy  of  thee? 

Sweet,  my  darling,  hearest  thou 
Steps  of  Him  who  guards  thee  now, 
Crowned  and  armed  before  thy  door, 
Sentinel  of  Death's  far  shore? 
Child,  His  face  is  kind,  I  know, 
Though  His  deeds  in  mystery  flow. 


THY   HAIR 


T  is  a  forest 
Of  shadows 
And  golden  vines  : 
Even  a  crown  — 
More  gloried  than 


The  piteous  thorns 
That  wreathed  in  pain 
The  Head  of  Christ : 
A  whispering  wood, 
A  magic  veil, 
Wherein  all  pale 
World-wearied  eyes 
Would  flee  the  dust 
Of  hurried  earth 
More  utterly 
Than  in  the  deep 
And  flawless 
Sleep  of  death. 
It  is  thy  chapel, 
Whose  fretted  shutters 
54 


Fall  and  outbar 
The  faintest  gleam 
Of  mortal  day, — 
That  within  its 
Curiously 
Woven  walls 
Thou  mayst  thine  own 
Pure  light  create. 


55 


SHADOW   LAND 

HERE  is  a  world  where  noon 

is  night, 
Where  from  dark  leaves  the 

slanted  light 

Turns,  with  cold  o'erwhelming 
might, 
The  heart  to  fear  and  dread. 

There  the  twigs  and  branches  break, 
The  sods  with  lifeless  footfalls  quake, 
And,  gliding  by  the  leaflets,  rake 
The  garments  of  the  dead. 


56 


SUNRISE   AT   SEA 

IHEN  the  first  flaming  limb 
Of  the  great  star  of  day 
Is  born  in  the  East, 
It  is  the  signal 
[For  the  channels  of  the  sea 

To  open  most  widely  ; 

The  hour  for  the  ghosts 

Of  those  once  drowned 

To  wander  on  the  sea : 

And  when  all  seaworn  things 

Rise  from  cool  wells  of  flame, 

And  bathe  in  the  wind  of  dawn  : 

It  is  the  time  of  all 

The  day  and  night 

When  songs  are  heard 

From  other  worlds ; 

For  then  the  feet  of  sound 

Most  subtly  run. 

Angel,  though  then  I  have  thee  not, 

It  is  the  hour  when  I  am  nearest  thee. 
57 


FAIR   EARTH,  FAREWELL 

AIR  Earth,  farewell, 
Kiss  me  good-bye, 
Ere  yet,  beyond  thy  breath, 
To  Heaven  or  Hell  I  fly. 

If  Heaven  my  harborage  be, 
May  it  not  prove  too  unlike  thee. 

Or,  if  Hell  be  the  place, 
Let  not  the  fury 
Of  its  fires  quite  efface, 
Dear  Earth,  thy  memory. 


58 


DEATH? 


THE  racing  sea ! 
"  What  is  death?"  he  cried. 
"  It  goes  and  comes  like  me," 
Answered  the  throbbing  tide. 


O  the  mysterious  night ! 
"  What  is  death?  "  he  asked  ; 
And  a  voice  in  the  dark  spoke: 
"  '  T  is  life  unmasked." 

"Is  death  like  thee?" 

O  the  fallen  snow  ! 

"  Yea,  cold  and  still  like  me," 

Breathed  the  whitened  floe. 


Then,  O,  of  the  earth 
He  did  solution  crave  ; 
And  the  earth  answered  : 
"It  is  the  grave." 

59 


"Death,  art  thou  sleep?"  he  cried, 
O  the  voice  of  Death  afar  : 
"  Yea,  I  am  sleep,"  replied, 
"Yet  love  shall  my  gate  unbar." 


60 


uut. 

o/yy/ 

REC'DJUN 

9  1987 

3  1970  00586  3235 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  A      000254008    6 


